Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,76

done quite a few emergency surgeries with the doc guiding her through it over the VHF. Oh, and did I mention she’s nineteen years old. One of my former students.”

“I’m new to Alaska,” Cutter said. “But I’d lay odds that half the deputies I work with don’t realize the depth of what it’s like in the village.”

“That goes for most everyone in Anchorage,” she said. “And Juneau too, except for when they want our votes. Think about it. Since you arrived, we’ve had at least one case of domestic violence, a physical assault on a teacher, a murder, and a kidnapping. I’m willing to bet most of that won’t get more than a few seconds of coverage in the Anchorage news—if that. We are accustomed to being afterthoughts.”

“Just another day in Stone Cross?”

“Not quite like that,” Birdie said. “But just another day in the bush. This is my home. Good, industrious people . . . Wonderful culture . . . And a really shitty dark side.” The tattoo on her chin quivered. “Do you know Alaska leads the nation in violence toward women?”

Cutter sighed. “I’m afraid I do.”

“Do you also know that Archie Stepanov is half Yup’ik and half Russian?”

“That, I did not know.”

“You think it is the Yup’ik half or the Russian half that beats his girlfriend?”

Cutter shrugged. “I think it’s the mean half.”

“Good answer,” Birdie said. She nodded at the Colt on his hip. “I didn’t know anyone carried revolvers anymore.”

Cutter chuckled, but he said nothing.

“It stands out, like you’re not trying to hide that you’re old-school.”

“I’m not sure I could hide that if I tried.”

“Which you do not.”

“Yep.”

“I was wondering,” Birdie said, moving a little closer. “Do you have any Native blood by chance? All this ancestry DNA stuff has people finding their red roots, if you know what I mean.”

“Nope.” Cutter put a knuckle to the blond hair on his forehead. “My forefathers were axe-men who settled in the British Isles, with some German, and a bit of Dane, I think.”

“Hmm,” Birdie said. “I ask because of the little leather bag on your belt. Not many white guys carry a medicine bag as a fashion accessory. Thought maybe you were a stealth Native.”

“Nope,” Cutter said. “Just some mementos from my grandfather.”

She opened her mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, and then went another direction. “Anyway, this fog’s still greasy thick. Can’t blame the pilots for not flying in it, especially at night. I have no doubt we would have gone after the Meads if not for the thing with the judge.”

“We?”

“Absolutely.” Birdie nodded. “I’m sure you’re a capable man-tracker where you come from, but it’s different in the bush. That’s why there’s so many stories about spooky stuff out here. The Hairy Man keeps you out of the woods by yourself. My grandmother used to tell me stories about Long Nails—a horrible old hag who gallops on all fours through the tall grass by the water. You can hear her sharp toenails clicking across the ground when she’s coming after you. If you don’t think that kept me from venturing too near the water.”

“I’ll bet,” Cutter said, resolving to keep that one from the twins or they would never go to bed.

“The stories serve a purpose,” Birdie said. “The river, the ice, even the tundra itself can eat you up whole—and as you see, often as not, nobody can come lookin’ for you.”

Cutter gave a mock shudder. “I’m going to have bad dreams now that you told me about the galloping toenail lady.”

“That’s the point,” Birdie said. “Scare the shit out of you so you stay safe. Anyway, if you’re planning to run back out into the woods, you’ll need something in your stomach to keep you warm.” She pushed the cup toward him again.

Cutter took it, eyeing the frothy pink contents. “Looks like buttercream frosting without the cake.”

“Agutaq,” Birdie said. “Eskimo ice cream. Fat, berries, sugar, and boiled whitefish.” She leaned in closer, confiding her secret recipe. “Some people use Crisco but I stick with caribou fat. More traditional.”

“Caribou, sugar, and fish . . .” Cutter mused.

Birdie winked. “Don’t forget the blueberries. Jolene and I picked them ourselves.”

He took half a bite with the plastic spoon, his eye on a plate of fry bread just in case he needed a quick chaser to mask the taste. Birdie watched him closely, judging his reaction. The agutaq wasn’t horrible, not really.

“It really is a little like buttercream frosting . . . except for